Dale Brown - Act of War

“Let’s say ten million, Hal,” the President said.

Kingman made a sigh as if he had just been outmaneuvered, but inwardly he was thinking that he was getting off cheap: he would’ve paid twenty million to get his hands on that super-strong bulletproof robot technology. “You got it, Mr. President,” Kingman said. “How quickly can you load them up and send them on their way?”

“Where and when do you want them?” The President held up a hand. “Wait, let me guess: San Francisco Bay area—today.”

“Great minds think alike, Mr. President,” Kingman said. He leaned forward a bit and added, “And maybe Chamberlain doesn’t need to know about our deal?”

“I’ve already ordered him to wrap up his investigation and let them go,” the President said. “I think he’s pretty much washed his hands of them. He’ll find out. But I don’t want to see robots marching down the middle of Fisherman’s Wharf or the Embarcadero, Harold. Don’t make me look bad on the Left Coast.”

“They’ll be out of sight, Mr. President, I promise.” He got to his feet, approached the President’s desk, and extended a hand. “Thank you for a very productive meeting, sir.”

The President rose and shook his hand. “Have fun with your new toys, Harold,” he said. “If you happen to find this Zakharov guy, squash him for me, will you?”

“Gladly, Mr. President. Gladly.”

Cannon Air Force Base, New Mexico

A short time later

She waited until Bolton was taking his turn in the shower, then got up and left to see where the other members of the task force were. She didn’t sleep one bit, and the information she got from her colleague in Washington was like a leech sucking her blood—but at the same time, she didn’t want to confront Bolton about it again.

There was a fair amount of activity happening for a disbanded military unit who were under criminal investigation, Kelsey DeLaine thought as she went out to the aircraft parking apron. Jefferson, Richter, Moore, the staff officers, and the TALON strike platoon looked like they were just getting ready to begin an early-morning run complete with rifles, Kevlar helmets, combat boots, and body armor with ammo pouches and CamelBak water bottles clipped to them; Ariadna Vega, her face still bruised and bandaged but already looking better, was handing out gear from the back of a Humvee. Kelsey hurried back to her barracks, put on a pair of fatigue pants, an athletic bra, black T-shirt, and boots, and ran out to go with them.

“Nice of you to join us, Agent DeLaine,” Sergeant Major Jefferson said.

Kelsey went over to him, very aware of all the angry, accusing eyes around her. “Mind if I tag along, Sergeant Major?” she asked.

“Rumor has it the FBI Director and the Attorney General are going to get you pulled out of here today,” Jason Richter said. “Sure you wouldn’t rather be packing to go?”

“I want to go with you guys,” Kelsey said.

“How touching,” Ari said. “Or do you just want to take another shot at Jason?”

“Dr. Vega, put a cork in it, draw her some gear, and let’s get going,” Jefferson said gruffly. Ari hesitated, glaring coldly at her, then picked out some gear and threw it on the ground behind the Humvee. The helmet and body armor were too big and the CamelBak was empty, but Kelsey didn’t complain as she went over to fill up her bottle, then donned her gear and got in line. They did some stretching and a walk around the big hangar to warm up, then started an “Airborne Shuffle”—a sort of a slow jog designed to cover long distances while wearing a heavy backpack or parachutes—out among the sagebrush and sand dunes of the Pecos East training range.

They took a break after about a kilometer’s jog. “How are you guys holding up?” Kelsey asked Jason after she sipped water from her CamelBak.

“Fine.”

“Are they letting you work on the CID unit?”

“Yes.”

“Are you going to talk to me just in one-word phrases from now on, Jason?”

“What do you want from me, Kelsey?” he asked. “I’ve taken full responsibility for everything I’ve done and I’ll take my lumps. If it hurts anyone else…well, I’m sorry. But I still feel we’re getting screwed, and I don’t think we’ve heard the last of Zakharov or Khalimov. I don’t know when or how, but they’re going to strike again, and soon.” Kelsey’s mouth turned dry when Jason said that, but she held her tongue, took a deep drink of water, and got ready for the next leg of their run.

The next two kilometers was a fast jog instead of the “Airborne Shuffle,” and now there was a lot more huffing and puffing at the rest stop. Kelsey drifted around near Jason, hesitating, then finally made up her mind and went over to him. “I wanted to let you know, Jason: we think Zakharov is in the United States,” she said.

Jason nearly spit out a mouthful of water. “What?” he exclaimed. “Zakharov is here?” Now everyone’s attention was fixed on them. “How? When did you find out?”

“Early this morning,” Kelsey replied. “He has a resident alien alias that he’s been using for years. He’s had full entry and exit privileges.”

“Where?”

“San Jose International.”

“What in hell is he doing in the U.S.?” Air Force Captain Frank Falcone asked.

“We don’t know.”

“What’s his alias?” Jason asked.

“He’s a Mexican national with resident alien status,” Kelsey replied. “Brokers and flies helicopters between the U.S. and Central America. Lives in San Mateo, California—has for years.”

“Jee-sus…!”

“Haven’t the Fee-Bees picked him up yet?”

“We had his apartment under surveillance but missed him,” Kelsey said. “He either didn’t return there or spotted the surveillance team and took off.”

“So now he’s loose in the United States!” Jason exclaimed. “My God…” He turned to Jefferson and said, “Sergeant Major, we need to get the task force loaded up and sent out to the West Coast as soon as possible. He’s going to strike somewhere out there, and we’ve got to be ready.”

“We’re not authorized to do anything except cooperate with the investigators, Jason,” Jefferson said.

“We’ve been sitting around here for two days, and all they’ve been doing is asking us the same questions over and over again,” Jason said. “Something’s going on, Ray. We’re being chopped out for some reason.” Jefferson fell silent, and Jason saw something that he’d rarely ever seen in the sergeant major before: doubt and confusion. “Kelsey, we need to talk.”

“What about?”

“Zakharov. Who is he? We know he’s an ex-Russian colonel and has apparently taken over this radical environmental group, but what else is he? We need some clues before we can take this guy down.”

“The FBI is tracking him down…”

“Kelsey, the guy used a nuclear weapon in the United States and is more than likely going to do some other attack—and if he’s got access to more nuclear weapons…”

“He might,” Kelsey said hesitantly. “He commanded a Soviet tactical nuclear rocket battalion back in the eighties.”

“Oh, my God…!” Lieutenant Jennifer McCracken breathed.

“After that, he was the head of a large private oil company in Russia and a powerful right-wing political operative.” She paused before adding, “He joined GAMMA when his oil company was bought out by…”

“Don’t tell me, let me guess: TransGlobal Energy,” Jason said. “That’s why he’s attacking all of those TransGlobal facilities in Brazil and the U.S.—he’s on some sort of revenge kick. And now he’s back in the U.S., on the West Coast…”

“TransGlobal Energy is headquartered in San Francisco,” Kelsey said, “and they have a major terminal and storage facility in the Bay area…”